e, and languish'd in the bower;
The heart's responsive tones he well could move,
Whose song was nature, and whose theme was love.

Aciloe's beauties his fond eye confest, 25
Yet more Aciloe's virtues warm'd his breast.
Ah stay, ye tender hours of young delight,
Suspend ye moments your impatient flight;
For sure if aught on earth can bliss impart,
Can shed the genuine joy that sooths the heart, 30
'Tis felt, when early passion's pure controul
Unfolds the first affections of the soul;
Bids her soft sympathies the bosom move,
And wakes the mild emotions dear to love.

The gentle tribe Aciloe's sire obey'd 35
Who still in wisdom, and in mercy sway'd.
From him the dear illusions long had fled,
That o'er the morn of life enchantment shed;
Yet virtue's calm reflections cheer'd his breast,
And life was joy serene, and death was rest. 40
Tho' sweet the early spring, her blossoms bright,
When first she swells the heart with pure delight,
Yet not unlovely is the sober ray
That meekly beams o'er autumn's temper'd day;
Dear are her fading beauties to the soul, 45
While scarce perceiv'd the deep'ning shadows roll.

Now the charm'd lovers dress their future years
In forms of joy, then weep delicious tears,
Expressive on the glowing cheek that hung,
And spoke the fine emotions whence they sprung-- 50
'Twas truth's warm energy, love's sweet controul,
'Twas all that virtue whispers to the soul.
When lo, Iberia's ruthless sons advance,
Roll the stern eye, and shake the pointed lance:
Oh Nature! the destroying band oppose, 55
Nature, arrest their course--they come thy foes--
Benignant power, where thou with lib'ral care
Hast planted joy, they come to plant despair--
Peruvia's tribe beheld the hostile throng
With desolating fury pour along; 60
With horror their ensanguin'd path they trac'd,
And now to meet the murd'ring band they haste;
The hoary chief to the dire conflict leads
His death devoted train--the battle bleeds.

Aciloe's searching eye can now no more 65
The form of Zamor, or her sire explore;
She hears the moan of death in every gale,
She sees a purple torrent stain the vale;
While destin'd all the bitterness to prove
Of mourning duty, and of bleeding love,